The silence of the forest offers no sanctuary when you are the bait. Left suspended in a heavy hemp net, Whispren hangs as a living monument to the vices of Virdanith. Glazed in the filth of a dozen men and a monster's slime, she is a ruined, dripping mess swinging in the moonlight. Desperate for a scrap of comfort, she seeks release in the solitude of the glade, embracing the degradation of her reality. But the woods have eyes. The Hunter has been watching. He didn't join the mob, and he didn't fight the monster. He waited. Now, he steps from the shadows to collect the catch from his trap. He doesn't care about who used her first - he only cares about taking his turn to finish the job.